


La Petite Mort

by Excella



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Knifeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:07:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Excella/pseuds/Excella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was careful with his movements, teased but did not cut. The expression on his face was comparable to the one he’d made as he was butchering the woman whose corpse lay across the room from where he knelt. But where he had caused the other woman excruciating pain he was causing this one unbearable pleasure; and while he brought that woman to her untimely death he would bring the woman before him to Sovngarde and back in her release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Petite Mort

**Author's Note:**

> Countless thanks to the wonderful captain_tots, my writing senpai, for inspiring me with her incredible works to actually sit down and finish a fic that I start. I couldn't have gotten my muse back or this drabble published had it not been for your help!  
> A little oneshot inspired by my neverending love for the captivatingly batshit jester Cicero and his lack of appearances in this fandom's fanfiction.  
> ***This fic (obviously) contains spoilers for the Dark Brotherhood questline, so please proceed at your own risk!***

* * *

****La petite mort:**** French for “the little death”, a metaphor for orgasm. More widely, it can refer to the spiritual release that comes with orgasm or to a short period of melancholy or transcendence as a result of the expenditure of the “life force”, the feeling which is caused by the release of oxytocin in the brain after the occurrence of orgasm.

* * *

  
**** _“...madness is merry, and merriment's might, when the jester comes calling with his knife in the night..."_  


She moved soundlessly through the shadows, swiftly, and with precision; like a primitive beast stalking its prey. The only proof there had been someone anywhere near the bushes were the small prints her light boots left in the snow, and even then her tracks were being quickly buried by the almost violent snowfall.

Dainty fingers of one hand released an arrow from its quiver while the other rummaged through the satchel she kept securely at her hip, closing around a small glass vial. She held it up to the moonlight to ensure she had selected the correct poison, then made quick work of applying it to the gleaming tip of the elven arrow.

A twig cracked behind her and her blood ran cold, running through her like the paralysis poison she’d applied to her weapon, and her body remained achingly still. The maniacal giggle that followed from that direction allowed her to release the breath she’d been holding in an exasperated sigh.

“Cicero has trouble keeping up with the Listener when she wanders too far too quickly.” His high pitched whisper was closer now, his hot breath tickling her pointed ear. A shiver ran down her spine as she tried to focus on the task at hand.

“And yet you never fail to find me.” She muttered half bitterly. At the sound of this he chuckled and settled in a crouch next to her behind the snowberry bushes.

Both gazes were rested on the humble cottage not 10 yards away from where they crept and the small windows were dimly lit from the family’s fireplace. A man’s dark silhouette sat in front of the window the Altmer had made her target. Drawing her ebony bow, she positioned the arrow and held her breath, ready to release.

“Wait.” His voice to her left protested. She huffed, annoyed, but kept her form. “This contract is for the miller and his wife. If you shoot him now, she’ll no doubt come running out screaming. We might never catch her before she makes it to the neighbors.” He had a point. Her shoulders relaxed as she lowered her bow, weighing her options.

“What do you think?” Her gaze did not leave the silhouette in the window while she posed her question.

“I say we wait a while for lights out then slit their throats as they dream.” His eyes gleamed at his own suggestion - he was excited.

“What a waste of a poison.” She begrudgingly sheathed the poisoned arrow and adjusted the bow that was now perched on her back. How had she overlooked that? She could have sworn the contract was for the miller only. Admittedly she wasn’t really paying attention when the Night Mother relayed the information to her. It wasn’t her fault the corpse hag had decided to give her a contract while she was attempting to catch up on 3 days of missed sleep.

“Some Listener I am.” She chuckled under her breath. Cicero gave a slight glance in her direction but did not ask about the comment, his gaze moving to the sky to see placement of the moon above them.

“Should be any minute now. It’s very late.” He hummed lowly while he waited.

No sooner than he’d said it did the shape in the window rise from its seat, moving further into the small home. Hardly a minute later the light was extinguished as the couple no doubt settled in to sleep.

* * *

After allowing them several minutes to fall into a deep sleep, the high elf led her companion to the door of the cottage. With hardly any effort she picked the lock and snuck over the threshold making not a single sound. The pair stood by the entrance after shutting the door, listening carefully to the slow and steady snores coming from the next room.

They had done this so many times before that there was no need for one to look uncertainly to the other, wondering what to do next. Living in the shadows, claiming lives for coin, dealing with death, it had become as natural as breathing the Altmer, and she had been partnered with Cicero for so long that he was more like a limb than a separate being from her.

He always knew where she was, even when she wandered too far from him, he always found her. He knew her combat style as well as his own, and had long since learned to compliment her movements against enemies with his. He could crouch comfortably in the shadows with her for hours on end waiting for a target, feeling no awkward silence or need for strained words .

He would delight her with hectically delivered anecdotes of previous kills from days long since passed, adding much needed comic relief to the high tension of exploring the Nordic tombs and Dwemer ruins. Over the course of only 4 months they had found harmony, perfect unison. When they were together, they simply were.

She savored the thought of that, how quotidien his presence had become since the day she’d walked into the Dawnstar sanctuary to find him grinning widely and excitedly at her from his perch near their Night Mother. How could she pass up asking him to accompany her in her travels? He had proven to be a more than worthy fighter having incapacitated the likes of Veezara and Arnbjorn. The deceptive little man was also very skilled in the art of lying. He had fooled her so convincingly that day Astrid had sent her to kill him that the high elf left him with pity in the bowels of the sanctuary lying in a pool of blood. What would have happened had she decided not to lower her weapon? She’d certainly have missed out on the most natural and comfortable companion she’d had in her lifetime.

They moved quietly, she to the miller’s side of the bed and he to the miller’s wife. Without so much as a sideways glance at the other they each drew their weapon and got to work.

She unsheathed the Blade of Woe and in a swift flick of her wrist the miller’s deep snore became a gurgle as he choked on his own blood. A clean cut that would drain his life in mere seconds. Her eyes lifted from the victim’s body to Cicero on the other side of the bed. ** **  
****

One of his hands was clamped tightly around the frightened woman’s mouth while the other held his dagger as the sharp edge gleamed along the skin of her neck even in the near dark of the home. He shifted his weight as the woman beneath him wriggled and thrashed, desperately trying to break from his grip. But the man was stronger than he appeared and kept her down with perfect ease as he made the first incision near her collarbone. A stifled scream fought through his fingers. The Dragonborn considered helping him by holding the woman’s thrashing limbs down but decided in the end that he, of all people, had the situation under control. She simply stood from her crouch to watch from a more comfortable angle leaned up against the wall of the cottage.

He was nicking at the woman’s skin, playing with his prey. A trail of blood marked his incisions across her shoulders and collar and along her jaw. This was what he enjoyed most, he savored the kill and his victim’s reaction above all. Most of the assassins in the Dark Brotherhood were there out of need of coin or having no other place to turn to, but Cicero? He was just a natural born killer who needed to be in his element. He needed the blood in his victims’ veins just as badly as he needed the blood in his own.

The poor woman’s eyes were wide and frantic, looking around and finding no hope for escape. She settled pleadingly on the shrouded face of the figure leaning on the wall by her husband’s corpse, tears falling freely onto her cheeks and her assailant’s hand.

His disposition throughout the attack was her favourite, the Altmer decided. He whistled and hummed delightedly as the perfectly sharpened iron of his dagger tore and mangled skin. Working his way up the side of the woman’s face, he settled in closely so he could study her facial expression as he cut up one eyebrow, then the next. It was almost poetic, the amount of painstaking detail he put into each incision. He was an artist, she was his canvas, and her murder would be a masterpiece painted in her own blood.

The muffled screams were beginning to irritate the high elf’s sensitive ears and she crossed her arms as she stared seriously at her companion. “Cicero.” She spoke tersely. He knew the tone. Hurry up, there are other contracts it meant.

With a pout of his lips he dragged the dagger across her squirming neck and finally rested it on her jugular. A quick sound of metal on flesh and the screaming stopped. He released his hand and flexed his fingers, relieving them of their strain of stifling cries for help.

“And another soul for Sithis.” He tutted and muttered under his breath about how she never let him have any fun as he went to find a rag to wipe the dripping blood from his hands.

She chuckled under her breath and knelt once more to pick the lock on the chest before the bed. It was about as difficult as the lock on the door had been and within moments she was rummaging through the meager possessions inside. A handful of gold, a few pieces of unimpressive jewelry and a rusting sword. Such a pity the couple hadn’t gotten to the weapon in time the Altmer joked grimly while looking up to regard the gruesome scene before her. The pair was beginning to bleed out and their blood soaked the furs and hay that covered the bed-frame below them.

“Cicero could have had more fun with that one.” He spoke sorrowfully from her side. The girl had to restrain herself from gasping, but he had seen her expression. He had startled her. Again. “I see the Listener is still not used to Cicero’s sneaking, hmmm?” A playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. She rolled her eyes and stood up.

“Did you find anything else?” They hadn’t really expected to find much in the way of treasure for a house like this. These were working class people, what meager possessions they had were few and hardly worth the trouble of rummaging for.

“Hardly any food, not even any sweetrolls. Just a coin purse in the pantry. 14 septims.”

“Impressive.” She quipped and shoved the small pieces of jewelry she’d pilfered into the satchel at her hip and turned to leave.

A brutal gust of wind and snow forced itself through the entrance when she opened  the door and the pair was pushed back into the house, falling on top of one another. The high elf scrambled to her feet.

“By Sithis that’s a fierce storm.” She stood dumbfounded at the blizzard desperately seeking entry into the small home. Cicero stood to join her, adjusting his jester hat which had been jostled upon their impact with the floor.

“Cicero does not think we will be able to walk through that, Listener.” His face was equally astounded. Surely it couldn’t have been that bad when they were still creeping outside? They hadn’t been indoors for very long, but it seemed to have been just enough time for the weather to reach incredibly ferocity. He padded quickly to the door to shut it tightly and stood with his back against it to prevent the wind from blowing it back open.

His partner scanned the room and her eyes settled on a dresser nestled into the humble living space’s corner. With a few strained pushes and some help from the jester it was barricading them from the vicious storm.

“Cicero has not seen a storm like this in many years. Then again he doesn’t really like spending time up here near the mountains. The cold bothers Cicero.” He mused and rubbed his hands up and down his arms and the thin fabric of his costume that covered them. Upon seeing this his companion found the fireplace in the next room and begrudgingly used some of her magicka to relight it, holding her hands for several minutes over the dancing flames before being satisfied with her temperature. She wasn’t particularly bothered by the cold, but she was no Nord, and the harsh winds of the northern territories did have their effect on her if she were exposed for too long.

* * *

“Looks like we’ll be here for a while.” Her words broke the silence that had settled upon them for several minutes. Unsheathing her weapons, she settled on a worn wooden chair with her feet up at its table. Nimble fingers ran along every inch of her bow, and as she pulled out her next weapon she lowered the cowl and mask she wore to get a better look at her blade, revealing her fair elven skin and hair darker than the Void falling into her eyes. She smoothed it back into a half-up style using some string she pulled from her satchel and turned her gaze back to the weapon in her hands. It was the Blade of Woe, the last thing Astrid had given her after admitting her betrayal. The elf had trusted Astrid, grown close to her, to everyone in the Falkreath Sanctuary. They were the closest thing she’d had to a family in years, and the woman she had trusted the most stole it from her.

It wasn’t that she didn’t miss Astrid, she did. But the sting of the betrayal, even if several months had passed, was still a fresh wound. The young Altmer doubted if she’d ever really get over it.

“Is the Listener thinking of darker times?” His question was simple as he’d noticed her expression. She glanced up. He’d been idly thumbing through the handful of books on the shelf behind him, sitting across from her at the table.

“Sometimes it feels like it happened just yesterday, other times I could swear I lost them four lifetimes ago.” She spoke slowly and grimly. She’d lost more than just Astrid that day, almost everyone in the Sanctuary save for herself, Babette, and Nazir had perished to the fire and the Penitus Oculatus. People she’d trusted and cared for; people whose charred corpses littered the halls of the cave system she had called home for so long. She shook her head, wanting to change the subject. “I am glad she left me this, however. It’s one of the finest enchanted blades I have ever owned, with some considerably impressive kills under its belt.” She smirked.

“Ahh, yes. The Emperor.” Cicero’s knowing smile pulled at his features.

“And of course, Ulfric. The not-so-high-king.” Her smirk widened into a smile around a chuckled that escaped her lips. Aside from murdering Astrid, her friend and betrayer, the Blade of Woe had been at her hands when she assassinated the Emperor of Tamriel and Jarl Ulfric Stormcloack, leader of the Stormcloak resistance. It had only seemed fitting that she use that weapon, the single item in her inventory she knew she’d never part with under any circumstances (for purely nostalgic reasons, and she hated herself for that).

Cicero chuckled with her. He’d been with her through it all, every battle and assassination, he followed her loyally. Skyrim, all of Tamriel, had changed drastically in the last four months, and it was all thanks to the elven woman sitting across from him at the table.

He was the first to admit he didn’t have the patience for a lot of people. He was, by every definition, a madman, and so empathy wasn’t exactly high on his list of talents. But she was a quiet and fierce woman he’d follow anywhere. She didn’t have his bloodlust, preferred to intimidate or persuade people into compliance rather than unsheathe her weapon right off the bat. It was something he respected about her. Adored, even. She was an elf by every definition, her mannerisms, her appearance, her disposition.Try as she might to resist her heritage, and he knew she did, she lived and breathed her Altmer ancestry against it all.

“Cicero does wish you would use your magicka every now and again.” His lips moved into a pout as he surveyed the weapons she’d laid out on the table.

“I get along just fine without it.” She didn’t raise her gaze to see his theatrical pout as she took inventory of the potions and poisons she had left. He knew why she didn’t want to use it.

“But the Listener is so good with her magicka. Cicero is so delighted to watch her conjure atronachs and set those who oppose her on fire.” A wicked grin had replaced the pout.

“You know it’s only for emergencies. If my back is up against the wall, I will use it.”

“That’s no fun.” Back to a pout. “Think of how much easier our contracts would be if you weren’t too scared to burn our targets to a crisp.”

In a matter of seconds the chair she had been perched on was flipped over across the room and her hand was on his neck, pushing him up against the wall.

“You know my boundaries, and you have crossed them.” She spoke fiercely, dark green eyes boring with intensity through his own blue ones. “I fear nothing.” The last statement was nothing more than an uncertain whisper from the back of her throat. Her fingers relaxed slightly from their grip and he took the opportunity to slip from her hands and switch places. He was now pushing her against the wall, his hands firmly on either of her hips.

“What in Sithis’ name are you doing?” Her eyes were wild and her features twisted as she tried to squirm from his grip, but by the Eight, he was far stronger, and more nimble apparently, than he appeared to be at first glance. She continued her struggle for several minutes, and he remained with a calm and sure grip.

“Ooh! Listener! That tickles!" a wicked grin tugged on his mouth.

Finally he grew weary of her struggle, he couldn’t bear to watch such a proud woman fight so futilely. “Aeveniel.” He spoke, low and clear.

She stopped struggling as her body became rigid. There was no expression on her face, or at least, she hoped there wasn’t. There couldn’t possibly be, as there were several different emotions fighting for control of her face simultaneously. In Cicero’s eyes her features were twisted from shock, to hurt, to anger, then back to shock. Her mouth hung open in dumb silence.

“H-how... ?” Was all she managed.

“You should know better than to leave official documents on tables when Cicero is around. What if I had been a criminal?” His wicked grin had returned, light blue maddened eyes alight with his stupid joke.

She did not smile, her brows furrowing and mouth turning down, settling into a frown. “Nobody knows. You must keep it that way.”

“Who is Cicero going to tell? Mother?” A terrible laugh escaped his lips and she couldn’t help but chuckle with him. Half of what made the man funny (to her, at least) was his enthusiasm for his character. He hadn’t always been the jester, but he’d become the idea, and done a very good job of it. She’d read his journals at the Falkreath Sanctuary, he knew she did. Neither of them cared because Cicero trusted her and she didn’t give a skeever’s ass what persona he insisted on as long as he followed her into battle loyally at the end of the day. He told the stupid jokes and she laughed at them. He took care of mother and she listened to her. He followed where she led and that was all the other needed.

Aeveniel had tried so desperately her whole life to forget the elfling who fled from the Summerset Isles that fateful day and she marveled at the man who became the jester. His ability to become something so new and different, so completely, astounded her. Did she want to know about the man underneath the jester facade? Of course. But the fact that she was kept wondering was a testament to his impressive ability to shed the skin of his former self and become another person entirely, another idea of a human.

“I’ll never hear the end of it if you do.” She teased. He was still holding her hips firmly but she’d stopped struggling long ago. She said nothing, appreciating the feeling of his strong hands through her light Brotherhood armour.

“Does she speak of Cicero?” He inquired, half serious, staring into her eyes.

“All the time.” Aeveniel spoke in almost a whisper.

“What does she say?” His eyes wandered over her delicate features, the high slant of her piercing eyes and pointed ears, to her dark lips as she spoke.

“She says...” The high elf reached around and pulled his hat off gently so that she could play with his striking red shoulder-length locks, “that you’re a wonderful keeper...” lithe fingers moved through the tresses, “she loves the way you take care of her. She says she’s lucky they nominated you...” her face drew closer to his, “that you’re the best thing to happen to her in ages...” her hands guided his face closer and she pressed her lips to his.

He sighed into the kiss with a moan against her lips, breaking it after a moment.

“What else does she say?” His expression was halfway between ecstasy and madness.

“She loves when you speak to her. When you sing to her. When you laugh.” Each statement was punctuated by a short kiss, leaving him more and more aroused.

“And she especially loves...” Aeveniel moved her hands beneath his light jester tunic to run her hands over the lean muscles of his sides and chest, “when you rub oils all over her body.” The last statement was a whisper that sent shivers down his spine. Her grabbed her face in his strong hands and once again claimed her lips with his own. Their kisses up until then had been gentle and sweet, but this embrace was about the electrifying need coursing through their veins.

She backed him up into the other room, her mouth never leaving his. When they were finally close enough to the fireplace to feel its warmth Aeveniel moved quickly to get his tunic up and over his head. In a matter of moments and hurried, tangled limbs, his clothes and her armor were littering the floor around them.

Cicero broke the kiss to trail bites along the high elf’s defined jaw, down into the nape of her long neck, burying his face between her shoulder and jaw to nibble at the skin and then place kisses on the irritated redness his teeth had evoked from her pale flesh. As he focused on her neck she continued running her fingers through his long hair, one of her favourite things about him that she wished wasn’t covered by that ridiculous hat all the time. Her hands wandered lower over the muscles of his shoulder and back. Fingertips dug and explored as he nipped at her collarbone, letting his incisors graze her skin until he held one of her hardening nipples gently between his teeth. He tugged on the sensitive area with his lips and her response was gripping his shoulders more firmly, nails lightly digging.

They eventually sunk to the floor where he left her laying by the fireplace to retrieve something from one of the many articles of armour strewn about. She closed her eyes and savored the glow and heat of the roaring fire on her skin. Cool metal kissing her lips made her lids snap open.

“You’re not really thinking of using that, are you?” She spoke against the blade on her mouth when she already knew the answer.

“Does Aeveniel trust Cicero?” She’d hated her name all her life, but didn’t mind it so much when he said it.

“... Yes.” After some hesitation, she spoke honestly. True, he was a madman, but he was her madman. A madman she’d grown to know over the course of the last few months and a madman she’d trusted with her life on more than one occasion.

“Don’t worry. Cicero would never think of harming such sacred flesh.” As he said this, he let one hand drag, painstakingly slow, down the length of her body, sending electrical currents wherever he touched. Aeveniel moaned lowly in anticipation as he moved the blade from her lips. The dagger she recognised as the Blade of Woe grazed her skin, cold metal raising goosebumps as it travelled despite the blazing fire hardly a yard from where she lay.

He was careful with his movements, teased but did not cut. The expression on his face was comparable to the one he’d made as he was butchering the woman whose corpse lay across the room from where he knelt. But where he had caused the other woman excruciating pain he was causing this one unbearable pleasure; and while he brought that woman to her untimely death he would bring the woman before him to Sovngarde and back in her release.

He leaned close to her skin, letting his tongue drag along after the blade, soothing, caressing. It went across her abdomen where he allowed it to dip playfully into her belly button, twisting his tongue in after it which made her laugh softy and arch her back at the contact. He continued up her side, along the silky skin of one breast and then another. The metal kissed down her rib cage and hips once more and over her muscular thigh. This time, Cicero moved inward, taking the knife close to her core and resting the flat side of the cool metal against her.

Aeveniel writhed at the shock of the cool blade on her most sensitive area, tangling her fingers into Cicero’s hair for the umpteenth time that evening as he dragged the flat metal along her thigh and replaced it with his tongue. The taste of her arousal for him drove him insane (even more so than he already was). He used his free hand to stroke and massage as his tongue explored and teased her most sensitive nerves. When he lifted his gaze to watch her expression it was clear in her features that she was becoming impatient for his touches. Both of her eyes were shut tightly and her teeth bit down on her lower lip, trying in vain to stifle the moans and gasps that were escaping. He grinned against her skin at the unsteady rise and fall of her chest with each uneven breath. Content with her reaction, he slowly ceased his ministrations, much to her disappointment. But he wouldn’t leave her in suspense so easily.

Returning his hands to their favourite spot on her hips, he thrusted into her and was met with a satisfied cry of his name, urging him on. Their unison ways were no exception here and together they worked out a steady and gradually frantic rhythm.  He touched the dagger against her pelvic bone and dragged with a little more pressure this time, on the very fine border of caressing and cutting her skin. She had seen worse in battle and wasn’t very concerned if his hand slipped, though she knew it wouldn’t.

His hands felt every curve and muscle  while they followed the blade up her form and he once again stopped at her throat. The lethal blade was now at a 45 degree angle with her skin right at the jugular. He could feel her gasp in all of her breath and hold it. Seconds passed feeling like hours as he increased the pressure on her sensitive vein while continuing to move inside her. Cicero expressionlessly stared directly into her eyes and he could the Altmer’s fluttering heartbeat increase with every second. His lips twisted into a wicked grin, and Aeveniel yelped.

He placed a tender kiss right on the flesh above the vein and smiled into her. The rush of relief and adrenaline was enough to send her over the edge, calling his name in a frenzied stupor. He didn’t have long himself and as he gave his last thrusts he twisted the dagger in his hand until the blade was cold in his palm. Fingers closed around it, squeezing it tightly until he could feel the invigorating sting and warm blood spilling over his fist, the wound being calmed by the chill of the iron and his eyes and mind blurry, being clouded with his orgasm.

If it had been anyone else laying beneath him, Cicero would have made the final cut. But he couldn’t do that to his Listener. Mother would be angry. So very angry. At the thought of this he couldn’t suppress his amusement and allowed one of his trademark laughs to wrack his body while he fell against her soft and panting form..

**Oh, how he laughed and laughed. Until he didn’t.**


End file.
